


The Doom That Came To Seven

by biichan



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Lovecraft, Doctor Who
Genre: Bondage, Crossover, Dark, Horror, Other, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-22
Updated: 2008-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 04:40:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/83147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biichan/pseuds/biichan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with playing games against Evil From The Dawn Of Time is that eventually you'll lose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Doom That Came To Seven

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme at sizeofthatthing. Prompt: _Seven's latest plan against Evil Since the Dawn of Time falls apart; he gets captured, tortured -- and drugged in a way that forces him to "enjoy" the experience more the worse it gets._
> 
> This is my first time writing using the Lovecraftian Mythos. My apologies if it sucks.

It had only been a moment's hesitation, but it had been enough. The Doctor had only long enough to realize that of _course_ it wasn't really Ace—to remember that one of the most important characteristics of the Crawling Chaos was that it was a shape-changer—before the blackness of unconsciousness claimed him. It would be some time before he awoke again and it would be more accurate to say that a part of him stayed dreaming even after he opened his eyes.

He had been drugged, of course. The part of him that was still able to think knew that. But the drug was potent—Nyarlathotep understood Time Lord physiology all too well—and the Doctor found that more and more he was slipping into the dream-like haze. It was so—very—hard to think when so many sensations wrecked havoc across his nervous system.

This he understood: he was bound to a black stone pillar in a cave. He was given a cupful of the sweet narcotic to drink twice daily: to keep him docile and degrade him further. The Doctor could have held up well enough under torture—he'd always had before—but the drug made him _enjoy_ it, made him beg for more, and _that_ was unforgivable.

He was flogged daily. Each lash was a fiery kiss that left him hard and aching. He begged for every lash—whined and pleaded—and at times it pleased his captor to wring sweet blasphemies from Doctor's lips in exchange for release from that aching need. The Doctor thought clearest after he came and the shame in those moments was the most exquisite pain of all.

There were runes carved into his skin: profane invocations to the Blind Idiot, that quivering monstrosity which lay at the center of the galaxy. Each shallow cut of the knife was a measure of bliss. At times the Doctor thought he could hear the whine of unearthly flutes, the maddening beat of the drums. He could feel something tear in the fabric of space. Nyarlathotep was using him to make a portal to bring his unholy master to earth.

The most wonderful, awful torment was yet to come. The Doctor could hardly wait.


End file.
